One writes about his madness from dawn to setting sun, but whenever it gets to the point where it manifests itself in his work, no one ever seems to recognize it as a manifestation of a moment of madness. One only gets wild-eyed late at night sometimes. It is only his mania, keeping him riveted to the page a little too long into the night, every now and then.
There was something on his mind, for the idea of taking another man to task for something that didn’t make any sense in the first place. Yet, all he’s succeed in doing is taking himself to task, in a wild world of perpetual popularity contests, where he desires to continue to be one of the players among all the other players in the business. He has wounded his own personal dragon this time. The other guy will recover just fine.
He’ll let it drop.
Nonetheless, the man is not a solitary warrior at that. Stan the Man knows this thing happens whenever he speaks of his faith. It’s just as well if his atheist writer friends know to avoid his work anyway. Stan doesn’t care if they do. His kind of belief system is not so easily chronicled anyway. The man has a distorted view of what the spiritual world is anyway. Who knows how he stands with anybody on either side of that rickety old fence? This man is not so interested in religion, as much as he is in decency, and even at that, he questions his own motivations sometimes.
There was a situation a long time ago now, with some girl who liked to play Scarlet O’Hara from Gone With the Wind, at a costume party Stan had attended way back when. Our man had shared a crush on her, like so many a young man was doing, in the day and time of the girl’s youth. Anyway, the girl mysteriously ended up a little long in the tooth, with a bastard child in tow, to be taken care of, regardless of the idea that the girl had teased and rejected nearly all of us within her circles, whenever she was still young and attractive. She remained a mother, as well as being unmarried, in a religious setting where she was no longer welcomed by that sort of people.
Her daughter was fatherless.
The child must surely have been born on Christmas Eve.
One time Stanley had taken to having threatening words with the girl, by the time he grew weary of her perpetual teasing. Our man was friends with some of the other young men who knew this snip of a girl. They were all teased into a crush, but some of the other young men actually found themselves hurt over this little whelp.
To make an honest woman out of her happened to be out of the question.
If any of our men had attempted to do that, they would have heaped misery upon misery on their own head, while the young adulteress would have turned into the perpetual shrew she was born to be nonetheless. She was still playing her game, and Stan wouldn’t have her. He refused, and she knew it. She probably knew why, too.
Then there was Stan’s father, the late, paranoid preacher, Willis, who beat his wife and children at home all week long, while his children were all still growing up. But that’s a weary old tale by now, and one only shy’s away from it’s telling at the onset of bringing up the subject, by this late time in the day of the writer. It’s called child-abuse and spousal-abuse. It’s an old topic.
On Sunday mornings, back when, all the family would pile into the not-so-glamorous classic 55 Chevy, in the early 60’s. They all were subjected to listening to their father’s over active libido in the car, as Willis told sordid jokes about the tongue tied usher, as they wended their way down the road to his very reverend parish, where he would don his ceremonial robes and preach his schizophrenic nonsense from his very reverend pulpit on all those stuffy Sunday mornings where so many people suffered at his service.
That man was a hypocrite, as well as a bully.
The very reverend hypocrite was discharged from the ministry in his prime, and went back to school until he managed to achieve not only a Master’s Degree, but also a PhD. When he finally concluded his schooling, with his children still remaining under age and under nourished. Willis got exceptionally violent toward his wife, because he wouldn’t take on any of the professorships offered to him, and the very reverend hypocrite lost control of himself. Willis got violent some more, around the house, after mother had broken the dishes against the walls.
Willis took to the road, to save face with his family. He deserted them.
Then there was the other snake oil salesman, who exacted $100 from Stan’s family, for a Bible Study course for Stan, which turned out to be nearly as complicated as earning a divinity degree would have been. It was Stan, not Willis, who begged his elders at home to pay the tuition in his own adulthood, so he could go hear what they teach every Sunday morning, on every street corner in the country, for free. The results were delayed, but eventually added up to Stan’s sobriety.
By that time in his life, Stan was in such dire straights with his alcoholism, he was immediately funded for the course by his relatives, in the hopes that it might help to remedy his flagrant problem. His elders probably never realized what a wise investment that hundred bucks turned out to be, for the beleaguered young alcoholic. He did his best to thank them fitfully enough, in the long run, but the relief was a long time coming to Stan the Man.
Stanley turned out to be lastingly sober, because he was able to recognize the miracle when he finally got one. All was not lost after all. The schizophrenic Willis, fathered four schizophrenic offspring in his ill fated marriage, and Stanley, with the drinking problem, also has a trust issue with churches, as well as with women. Stanley is his own unforgiven self. He has an ongoing battle with his emotions, over whether he should trust anyone well enough to even ask them out.
His elders in his family happened to be much too scarred from enduring the rigors of his addictions, to ever be particularly receptive of his gratitude or his ensuing sobriety, whenever all was tallied up, where his elders’ feelings about him were concerned. We can’t judge such people very harshly, however, when we consider the trouble they endured to facilitate the survival of the drunk. There were all sorts of horrors for them to endure when he was in his cups. Well, he really wasn’t all that good at being bad, and he wasn’t really all that bad at being good.
The fact that Stanley has survived to the point of the age of senior citizen, is the impetus which spurs all these many pages, regardless of how many pages it turns out to be. He decided he survived for one purpose: to document his lifetime activities.
His story must be important to someone.